Aftermath
by Gracie
Summary: Janeway is experiencing after-effects of assimilation, both physical and emotional, and confides at last in her first officer. (Missing scene from "UMZ", as if you couldn't tell. : )


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TITLE: Aftermath

AUTHOR: Gracie Kay

DISCLAIMER: They ain't mine. (Shortest disclaimer in the book, eh? : )

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Brace yourself for some ranting and rambling . . . Okay. This is a follow-up to "Unimatrix Zero," written because I was so ticked at the last scene. I knew right away (as did many other loyal viewers, I'm sure) that the next episode would show our brave threesome fully recovered from the assimilation--including Tuvok--and that none of it would ever be mentioned again. Hello, Paramount, they were _assimilated_! This is serious! (That line from Janeway about not playing hoverball for awhile was particularly exasperating.) And is it so hard to have a scene or two in the next couple episodes that shows us how this has effected them? Apparently, judging by "Imperfection," the answer is yes. So, this is just a sadly missing scene from the end of "UMZ II"--or the beginning of "Imperfection," whichever you prefer. : )

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The headache assailed her without warning, so suddenly that she barely bit back her gasp as she sat in the captain's chair on the bridge. At the moment, life was uneventful, so the wave of dizziness was easily resisted. She simply closed her eyes.

_It'll go away,_ Janeway insisted to herself. But it didn't. Instead, the sharp pain began to slither down her neck and spine. She knew exactly what was happening and quickly made an excuse to go to her ready room. As she left, concentrating completely on putting one foot ahead of the other with enough confidence to avert suspicion, she felt Chakotay's gaze follow her. Had she failed to fully mask her pain? 

The ready room doors whisked shut behind her, and she staggered just a little as she reached the desk. The pain had snaked the full length of her spine by now but was still most intense in her head. She leaned against the desk for support and closed her eyes, willing the pain to subside so she could get back to her bridge.

It didn't work.

The Doctor had warned her of this after-effect of assimilation. Even without being linked to the Hive Mind, her central nervous system had experienced serious trauma. He had described the symptoms so she knew what to expect and had assured her that it was normal, but that if the headaches persisted for more than a day or so, it was a sign her body needed more rest before returning to duty. That had been three days ago, and so far not even the EMH knew about these attacks. It only happened around twice a day, anyway. It was normal. And she wasn't about to head down to sickbay for an analgesic every time she got a headache--

Janeway pressed a hand to her head, stifling a moan. She couldn't help comparing her own recovery rate to B'Elanna's, which was much faster, although she knew they were not really comparable. B'Elanna's body was fortified with Klingon DNA, and besides, she was ten years younger than her captain. 

Janeway was startled when her door chime sounded. Slowly, she straightened up and squared her shoulders, concealing the pain that she knew was visible in her eyes. The chime sounded again, and she cleared her throat. 

"Come in."

Her first officer stepped into the room, looking surprised to find her standing there instead of seated at the desk. He didn't say a word, just stood there for a minute and studied her. 

"Commander?" she questioned at last.

"I--I'm sorry to bother you, Captain. Are you . . . all right?"

She avoided his gaze. "I'm fine."

The silence grew tense. She could still feel him looking at her. And she knew he wasn't buying her line.

"With all respect, Captain, I don't think you are."

Was that anger in his voice? Her gaze darted up to meet his, and she tried to glare at him with that captain's look that warned him against prying. This was her mistake, for just then her headache intensified, and she knew he could see it in her eyes. She looked away yet again, but it was too late. 

The barriers of protocol crumbled between them as he reached her side in three long strides. "Kathryn, what is it? Talk to me."

Her resolve was chipping away before the deep concern in his eyes, in his voice. With a trembling voice, she whispered, "It's nothing. Please, Chakotay."

He shook his head. "Don't even try it. I know you better than that. Tell me what's wrong."

She did. She told him, not only about her headaches, but about the Doctor's warning that she wasn't giving her body enough time to recover from the strain it had endured. She fully expected a lecture, an angry admonition that her obstinacy was going to be the cause of her own death. She'd heard it all often enough; and though usually it was her CMO who got the privilege of boring her with the spiel, Chakotay had been known to scold her as well, on occasion.

What she didn't expect from him was silence, but that was what she got. For several minutes. Time enough for the pain in her head to abate somewhat, so that she could push herself away from the support of the desk and stand firmly on her own two feet once more. 

"Aren't you going to say something?"

His dark eyes narrowed slightly. "What do you want me to say?"

"Well, I was expecting a lecture on taking care of myself. We've been around this circle often enough."

"Yes," he acknowledged, then fell silent. 

She frowned and looked deep into his eyes, but she said nothing. 

His next question surprised and unnerved her. "Are you sure that's all that's bothering you?"

She tried to laugh off the comment, but she could feel her jaw tighten. "Isn't that enough?"

"Kathryn . . . what are you feeling? Not _how_ are you feeling--I expected you to be back on duty far before you should have been. And I expected you to hold back any sign of strain from the crew. But _what_ are you feeling . . . after being over there?"

She knew what he meant by "over there." The Borg cube. Yes, she knew what he meant--but was she ready to share it? She walked over to the observation port and watched the stars streak by, then sat down on the couch and leaned her head back against it and closed her eyes. She felt the cushions move and knew Chakotay had seated himself next to her. Patient as ever, he was willing to wait until she was ready to talk; but she knew she couldn't put him off now. Eventually, he would expect an honest answer from her. 

"It was . . . frightening." She had to choose her words carefully if she hoped to maintain her composure. Even at those three words, she felt the emotions wash back over her as though she was still on the cube, still walking woodenly among all those machines. Machines of which she had become a mirror image. She still remembered the first glimpse she had caught of herself, just a small flash of her reflection in a console of the Borg ship. She had been, for only a moment, frozen with revulsion. Though she didn't_ think_ like one of them, she truly _looked_ like a drone. A compilation of biology and technology with neither soul nor conscience, which was not truly dead but not truly alive. 

"It was frightening." Her voice was repeating the words, but they were such a pitiful understatement. She realized that she was barely trembling, but that Chakotay had noticed it and had taken her hand in his own. Braced by his support, she swallowed and went on. 

"I know that there have been Starfleet captains who were fully assimilated, who went through a much worse ordeal than I did. Some of them lost an arm, an eye--and they were linked to the Collective mind. They had no control over their own thoughts and actions. I keep telling myself that what I went through really wasn't anything severe, and yet . . . it was so frightening--walking through those corridors past drones, constantly tense and ready to be attacked. I started to hate them, Chakotay." 

She lifted her head and looked into his eyes to find him studying her carefully. "I started to hate them for what they've done to people, and to worlds. But then I remembered the people I met at Unimatrix Zero--they were _people_, Chakotay, not machines. Victims who had no control over their own fates--who still don't. Victims who victimize. It's so twisted. And so . . ." 

She looked away, hating her lack of articulation, and even more fiercely, hating the feelings of dread and abhorrence and compassion, all scrambled together inside her like an artist's warped collage. She finally looked back to him, grateful that he was willing to listen to her confused ramblings and try to help her make sense of them. Grateful, too, that these circumstances had made him her first officer.

"There's no easy answer, is there?" she questioned at last. 

"No," he answered. "But even if I can't give you your answer, I'm glad you let me listen to your questions." 

The faintest of smiles danced on her lips. "So am I, Chakotay." 


End file.
